The Longest Road: Overland in Search of America, from Key West to the Arctic Oceanby Philip Caputo
One of our greatest living writers completes an epic journey across America, Airstream in tow, and reflects on what unites and divides a country as endlessly diverse as it is large
September 1996 found Philip Caputo on Barter Island, a wind-scoured rock in the Beaufort Sea populated by two hundred Inupiat and a handful of whites. As he gazed upon an/b>
One of our greatest living writers completes an epic journey across America, Airstream in tow, and reflects on what unites and divides a country as endlessly diverse as it is large
September 1996 found Philip Caputo on Barter Island, a wind-scoured rock in the Beaufort Sea populated by two hundred Inupiat and a handful of whites. As he gazed upon an American flag above the only school for a hundred and fifty miles, he marveled that the children in that school pledged allegiance to the same flag as the children of Cuban immigrants on Key West, almost six thousand miles away. Awed by America’s vastness and diversity and filled with a renewed appreciation for its cohesiveness, an idea began to form. With enough time, gas money, and nerve he could drive from the southernmost point to the northernmost point of the United States that is reachable by road, talking to people as he went and trying to better understand what holds our great country together. And then, cicada-like, the idea went dormant, not to be reawakened for fourteen years.
In 2011, in an America struggling through the greatest economic downturn since the Depression and more divided than it has been in living memory, Caputo, who had just turned seventy, his wife, and their two English setters took off in a truck hauling an Airstream camper from Key West, Florida, to Deadhorse, Alaska. The journey, which traveled back roads and state routes, took four months and covered seventeen thousand miles. Caputo interviewed more than eighty Americans from all walks of life to get a picture of what their lives and the life of the nation are like in the twenty-first century and created a book that informs as much as it entertains.
Novelist and Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Caputo (Crossers) is a guy you could meet in any American campground: retired and driving an elderly Airstream trailer hitched to an equally elderly pickup truck. Yet over the course of over 11,000 miles from Key West, FL, to the Arctic Ocean, Caputo shows readers he’s not quite an average guy as he tolerates unexpected tantrums from his vehicles, his two confined hunting dogs, and, on rare occasions, his long-suffering wife. What is his intent here? Caputo set out in 2011 to learn what holds our far-flung and diverse country together. Unexpected encounters lead to many gratifying and insightful conversations on a Florida beach, in a Nebraska campground, and in the wilds of Alaska. Some travel days on the open road are far from remarkable, while others are filled with overwhelming beauty and fascinating people. Along the way, Caputo’s never flags in his intense curiosity and quest to understand our country better.
Verdict This is a very satisfying read except for one glaring omission: there is not a single map to help the reader follow the route. An essential travelog.Olga Wise, Austin, TX
(c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
“The ultimate road trip.” The Denver Post
“[An] engaging travelogue of a remarkable journey packed with plenty of intriguing tidbits for armchair travelers.” The Boston Globe
“A new book from the Pulitzer Prize-winning Caputo…is always an event. Pithily capturing their characters and opinions about the state of America, Caputo snares reading devotees of a classic American theme, the road trip.” Booklist, (starred review)
“It is a joy to read these stories. I mean that: pure joy. The Longest Road is the best thing to come along since Blue Highways and Travels with Charley.” Doug Stanton, New York Times bestselling author of Horse Soldiers
“[Caputo] keeps the narrative moving with his observant eye and mordant sense of humor.” The New York Times Book Review
“A new book from the Pulitzer Prize-winning Caputo…is always an event. Pithily capturing their characters and opinions about the state of America, Caputo snares reading devotees of a classic American theme, the road trip.” Booklist, starred review
“[Caputo] gives us a view not only of the 17,000 miles he traveled but of the many people with whom he spoke. The novelist and multi-award-winning journalist, whose Rumor of War was one of the defining books of the Vietnam era, should get it just right.” Library Journal
“A continental tale that is always engaging and frequently reassuring.” PW
“This reporter has more stamina in him than your average 21-year-old…Caputo creates captivating portraits of a wide variety of communities.” Kirkus
It is a joy to read these stories. I mean that: pure joy. The Longest Road is the best thing to come along since Blue Highways and Travels with Charley.
- Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
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Read an Excerpt
I don’t know why my dream fell into such a long slumber. However, after careful investigation, I can identify what woke it up.
At the root was a condition I’ve suffered from for most of my life. I trace its origins to my childhood in the forties and fifties, when my father, a traveling machinist for the Continental Can Company, maintained and repaired the machines leased to canning factories in central and northern Wisconsin. He would leave our home in suburban Chicago in the late spring, and when school let out for the summer he returned to fetch my mother, my sister, and me to spend the next three months with him.
After the suitcases were stowed in the trunk of the company car, always a no-frills Chevrolet, we would head north on U.S. 45 or U.S. 41, then two-lane blacktops. Some kids would have been sad to leave their friends for the summer, but that moment when we swung onto the highway never failed to fill me with a tingling anticipation. We lived in different places over the years—backwoods cabins without indoor plumbing, lakeside cottages, houses in towns with Indian names like Shawano, or French names like Fond du Lac, or plain-vanilla American names like Green Lake—but the destination never excited me as much as the getting there. I loved to feel the wind slapping me through the open windows, and to inhale the strong smells of manure and silage as the Chevy rolled past corn and pea and beet fields speckled with the straw hats of the migrant workers who brought a touch of the exotic to the midwestern countryside—Mexican braceros, tall Jamaicans. I loved watching farmhouses whiz by, barns decorated with faded advertisements for feed companies and chewing tobacco, and the landscape change from field and pasture to somber pine forests jeweled with lakes.
Long ago, when I was a correspondent in the Middle East, I spent a couple of weeks wandering the Sinai Desert with bedouin tribesmen and an Israeli anthropologist familiar with their culture. He told me that their migrations were not always dictated by the need to find water or better grazing for their herds; sometimes they struck their tents and began to move for no discernible reason. He was forced to conclude that they were animated by an impulse, perhaps lodged in their nomadic genes, to get going, it didn’t matter where.
I knew the feeling.
My father died on March 2, 2010, at age ninety-four. My wife, Leslie Ware, and I were at our house in Patagonia, a small southern Arizona town where we spend part of each winter, when my sister, Pat, phoned with the news from Scottsdale. My father had gone to live there with her and my brother-in-law after my mother’s death in 2001. His passing, my sister said, had been quick, painless, even serene, so I felt more grateful than mournful as Leslie and I drove to Scottsdale for the memorial service. It was held at a spanking-new, faux-adobe mortuary that could have been mistaken, from the outside, for an upscale desert spa. Before the service began, I spent a few minutes alone with my father in a back room. He hadn’t been dressed yet, and he lay on a steel gurney, a sheet covering him to the neck to hide his nakedness and the embalmer’s incisions. His hair had been combed, a pleasant expression put on his face, makeup applied to restore his complexion to its former ruddiness. The cosmetics were so artful and he’d been around so long that I had a hard time believing he was really, truly gone. It became easier when I laid a hand on his forehead, cold as a rock in winter.
I spoke to him nonetheless, on the off chance that he could hear me, telling him that I would always remember him, that I would miss him, that although we’d had some sharp differences I’d never stopped loving him. Then I reminisced about the trip we’d made to Wisconsin a year after my mother’s death. We’d gone to Shawano Lake to look for the beach where I’d taken my first steps in 1942. He wanted to see it again. Our only guide was an old photograph showing my mother holding my hand as I toddled uncertainly in the sand. There in the mortuary I reminded him of how amazed we’d been to find that beach, hardly changed in sixty years. As we stood on it, he’d grown nostalgic and talked about his early days on the road, traveling from cannery to cannery with his oak toolbox, its felt-lined drawers crammed with the precision instruments of his trade. “There was nothing like it,” he’d said, wistfully. “To be in a car with everything you need, nothing more, and an open road in front of you.”
No two people could have been less alike than my father and Jack Kerouac, yet there had been the same spirit in the words he’d spoken as in those Kerouac had written: “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”
My father’s death plunged me into melancholy reflections on old age and the brevity of life, even one as long as his. In a less-than-celebratory mood, I marked my sixty-ninth birthday later that spring, after Leslie and I were back at our home in Connecticut, where we live most of the year. The milestone of seventy was coming up fast. In this era of longer life spans, you can kid yourself at sixty that you have plenty of time left, but seventy has the unmistakable ring of mortality. You quit cigarettes and hard partying years ago, you eat healthy servings of fruits and vegetables, you take your Lipitor faithfully, you exercise, and still you wake up at the hour of the night when it’s impossible to entertain illusions, and you can almost see him at the foot of your bed, black wings spread as if about to enfold you.
Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me . . . Well, a lot of my life was behind me . . . and ahead?
As if struck by an electrical charge, the sleeping cicada born on Barter Island cracked its shell, rose in flight, and began to buzz insistently in my ear. By road from the subtropics to the Arctic.
I went to my laptop, looked up directions from Key West, Florida, to Deadhorse, Alaska. A map of North America flashed on the screen. A blue, diagonal line zigzagged across it, marking the most direct route from the southernmost to the northernmost point—5,475 miles, according to the driving directions. And that was one way, not to mention that I would have to drive from Connecticut to Key West—1,486 miles—just to get to the starting point. Then, of course, I would have to return to Connecticut from Deadhorse—4,780 miles. The total distance—11,741 miles—gave me sticker shock. Round it up to twelve thousand. Almost halfway around the world! It seemed slightly mad, but then it might do me good. To make such an epic road trip, discovering places I’d never been, rediscovering others, never knowing what I’d find beyond the next curve or hill, would be to recapture the enchantment of youth, a sense of promise and possibility.
The cicada chirped incessantly in my head. I clicked back to the first map. Looking at it brought on a mixture of eagerness and reluctance. The buzzing grew more shrill. If you don’t go now, geezer, you never will. I listened to my inner cicada, and the uneasiness subsided. If I’d learned anything, it was that the things you do never cause as much regret as the things you don’t.
But I didn’t decide to go purely for the adventure. Fourteen years earlier, standing in front of the Harold Kaveolook School, I’d asked, What held the nation together? What made the pluribus unum?
Now I revised that question—would it continue to hold together?—because the America of 2010 wasn’t the America of 1996. I’d been living in it the whole time but in some ways did not recognize it.
The worst economic calamity since the Great Depression. Foreclosures, bankruptcies, millions of homes under water, and millions of people out of work. The wages of the employed stagnant, except for CEOs, investment bankers, and the practitioners of casino capitalism on Wall Street, all of whom were making more money than ever. People were angry. In Texas, crowds at a political event had called on their governor to secede from the union. In Nevada, a candidate for a U.S. Senate seat had suggested that if conservatives like herself didn’t get their way they might resort to armed insurrection. Strangely enough, much of this fury wasn’t directed at the financial mandarins who had brought the nation to the edge of the abyss; no, it fell on citizens like the aging engineer who, afflicted with Parkinson’s disease, was mocked and abused at a Tea Party rally in Ohio because he supported health-care reform. That was the America I didn’t recognize—spiteful and cruel.
In geology, a rift is a long, narrow zone where stresses in the earth’s crust are causing it to rupture. In North America, one such formation is the Rio Grande Rift, which is pulling apart at the rate of two millimeters a year. You might say, with considerable license, that it’s very slowly tearing the continent in half. I couldn’t help but see it as a metaphor for the stresses that seemed to be ripping our political and social fabric. But was the country really as fractured as it appeared in the media? As bitter and venomous? It wasn’t my intention to take the pulse of the nation; the United States is too big, too complicated a mosaic of races and nationalities and walks of life to have a single pulse or even two or three. But I thought I’d ask people, when possible, the question I’d put to myself: what holds us together?
Copyright © 2013 by Philip Caputo
Meet the Author
Philip Caputo is a former journalist and Pulitzer Prize winner who has written numerous works of nonfiction, including A Rumor of War, one of the most highly praised books of the twentieth century, which is read widely in colleges throughout the country. His novels include Acts of Faith, The Voyage, Indian Country, Horn of Africa, and his most recent, Crossers. He divides his time between Connecticut and Arizona.
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Road-trips, I really like road-trips, whether it is to Sonoita, Arizona, for a Saturday night or as my wife and I did this past July drive to eight states. It is a great feeling awaking in Deadwood, South Dakota, and wondering where we shall drive to today. As such it was with excitement when Philip Caputo’s new book “The Longest Road” was released, as perhaps he and his wife Leslie Ware completed the ultimate road-trip. Phil is an author I have long admired. I still remember reading his epic memoir “A Rumor of War” when I returned home from Vietnam, which remains the work that most, defines that war. I have enjoyed all 15 of his books and also have a special appreciation for his “Acts of Faith” and more recently “Crossers”. Phil and Leslie begin their ultimate road-trip driving 8300 miles from the southernmost point in the United States (Key West, Florida) to the northernmost point at Deadhorse, Alaska. They were accompanied by their two English setters Sage and Sky and traveled with an old 1962 Airstream. Phil has felt America in recent years was growing in anger and division and he simply wanted to discover what is holding people together if anything. The journey was enjoyable reading, not just for the places they visited, but the stories of the people they met. They tended to avoid the interstates and large cities so primarily the travel was through a kinder and gentler nation. He mixes humor throughout the story, especially describing various episodes of exchanges between his wife Leslie and himself. When one is married to a Leslie (which I also am) you know the road traveled will never be dull. I am not sure if Phil really discovered the reason of anger in America or what is keeping people together, although I do know that when I finished this book I felt good and I felt happy.
Caputo has made home travel possible through a detailed diary of his own adventure. He takes on a trip across America....REALLY across Americaa. Along the way he shares the stories of real America-the one we sometimes forget that exists. Very reader friendly and exceptional writing that allows you the privilege of a passenger on a trip of a lifetime.
My husband and I loved it. We have been travelers for a long time and could relate. I found myself laughing out loud many times. What a delightful book! Thanks Phillip Caputo for putting into words so many of our experiences.
An interesting and entertaining journey with a purpose of defining what keeps the U.S. united. I enjoyed the easy going writing style and the sheer volume and variety of answers.
“The Longest Road” follows a couple as they trek across America in an attempt to find out what keeps America together after 200+ years. The story starts off well with some interesting takes from people and their interesting tales comparing today to the past. Unfortunately, like the Midwestern storms the couple encounters in the great plains, the story gets blown off track in the middle and the people they meet from there on are interesting but not necessarily insightful in the couple’s quest. Over all the idea has great promise but in the end I felt it wound up being a bit more of a travel journal rather than a “finding of America”.
Name is up there. Gender shecat. Age is old enough. Rank is...warrior.(though i woukd like to be deputy).